The Pilgrim

by Paul Almond

  At the stage, nothing was wasted: barrels of heads were gone through to save the tongues and cheeks for special treats, and then bones, guts and heads went into a puncheon to feed the dogs. What a messy job, as well as being one in which I felt tremendous pressure not to relax, or beg off even for a few minutes. Fish guts slipped off the table so we were always sliding around on slimy footing. Predatory gulls dove at us, screaming for scraps, wheeling around for try after try. Thunderstorms poured down, then strong winds sloughed off their clouds, only to have fog creep in and out. Fishermen came and went, discussing the catch, comparing notes: where the most cod swam this week, off which point or in which cove. But so much seemed a matter of luck.

  Of course, everyone working together with mutual understanding, it was all so productive, another reason I found these communities beautifully welded together. So little backbiting, so little ugly gossip, so much cooperation. A unique environment that I felt privileged to have observed by becoming part of their drudgery, though of course, to them, it was good honest toil as commanded by our Lord.

  By the end of the first week, nay the first day, I was dropping with exhaustion. But I’d had no time to devote to my own misery, to the fact I’d been brought to this state of desolation by my own misjudgement, botching my life’s one great opportunity. The work absorbed me, I almost enjoyed it, though my fingers bled, my hands smarted from the salt, and I was so tired I could hardly think.

  After the Sunday services, I asked Gene if he’d mind going to Harrington Harbour by himself to take next week’s service there, and ministering also to the fisherfolk who had left for fishing on the various islands around Harrington — Shag, Gull Cliff, and Fox Island — allowing me to spend more time in this tortured atonement. He readily agreed and left his family here at Aunt Minnie’s. Minnie seemed pleased to have a baby to care for, leaving Anna Bell time to explore our village properly, which she had not done before.

  The second week was just another tumble of torment, arising before dawn, setting off in the chill morning, hauling in traps or nets as the case may be, rowing back to the stage, forking the boatloads of fish up onto it, and then taking my place in the lineup, either at the splitting table, or salting the fish, stacking it, or taking already cured fish out onto the flat rocks, covering and uncovering them, falling into bed at night: all so very good for me, I hoped.

  Finally, the next week, I took a fond, almost tearful, leave of my dear hostess Aunt Minnie and sallied forth on Owen’s Evangeline with Gene, Anna Bell, and their baby to do our duty as missionaries right to the western end of this vast parish.

  We touched in and spent time at Whale Head, Wolf Bay, Christian Bay, Kegaska, and Natashquan, giving services, visiting the sick, and doing, I believed, an uncommonly good job of looking after all those homes and settlements left unvisited since midwinter. I did derive some joy from seeing my parishes under such different conditions: no wind now howling about the houses nor snowdrifts covering everything. In summer one could marvel at the lichen blooming and so many tiny flowers and berries covering the islands and the mainland granite.

  As we sailed by great wallowing humps of islands asleep in the gulf with the low sun slanting across them, my heart began to soar a little: was not this indeed my home, even if eventually, after another year, I’d be leaving. So curious. The generosity that permeates every human being here somehow reaches out to imbue with warmth the very granite and lichens, the stands of spruce, birch, and alder now putting out their hopeful buds. In the great silence of this North, I could hear the adagios of islands sing out in some prodigal chorus, praising not only the Lord but man’s unquenchable will to thrive in this most lovely but also most inhospitable environment imaginable, as my lord bishop had said. How privileged I began to feel in this uplifting beginning to what might be many years of productive ministry!

  And to my left, not a boat in sight, not a spouting whale nor lazy seal, nothing to break that deep azure tableland of water. The enormous arc of horizon swept round an ocean so flat I almost felt I could get out and walk upon it, as did our Lord, its hard blue surface seeming capable of sustaining even the greatest host of Hope’s messengers. Perhaps, I could even begin to see a gleam of hope that my horrible emptiness might one day leave me in peace and I would be myself again.

  In St. Peter’s Harbour (Havre St. Pierre as it was known) I bade farewell to Gene and Anna Bell and boarded La Canadienne for the trip back to the Gaspé Peninsula, where I’d spend a month before returning here next autumn.

  Here I was, once again in my favourite spot, at the prow of the schooner — heading south this time instead of north, homeward bound after my first full year as a practising missionary. What a different young man was returning!

  And what about my quest, my hope for a personal visitation from the Lord? Well, of course, in my present state of enlightenment, I grew to understand that indeed, He had been with me all along, in each person whom I helped. And that’s what I suppose I learned, in all these adventures: to see His face in each person with whom I would ever interact.

  I faced bravely into the wind, the scarf my mother had knitted wrapped around, my coat buttoned tight, for even now at the end of July, the gulf winds were nippy. The longer I stayed here in the bow, the more I felt my loneliness lifting.

  Lorna would be happy in her home environment where she truly belonged, I could see that now. Perhaps it was right that we had not been joined in Holy Matrimony. Perhaps it was right, and by that I meant God’s will, that I should go on alone to fight my battles before I became truly worthy of a fine partner. Now, after my descent into the Underworld, my stint in the Castle, my turn along the Valley of the Shadow fighting the demons and devils that inhabit these dark corners of the mind when all hope disappears, surely I was emerging a better man. Indeed, perhaps even one day, a better husband. And of course, with all that, I should add, a better clergyman.

  And now, Shigawake lay ahead. At last I was able to think of home and how much I would enjoy seeing everyone in Shigawake. And after that, my induction into the priesthood in Quebec City. And presumably later, a fine relationship with some woman, happy children, and if I were ever to reach it, a decent old age. But just now, dwell in the present, I told myself. Soon we would dock in Gaspé harbour, and Old Poppa would be there with his next horse, for Lively would surely be out to pasture. I looked forward to the lovely long trot home over the Gaspé hills and dales, along a very different coastline from the one I had traversed this year, one of high, red cliffs, deep forests, and gulls wheeling over lush farmland, on to the Old Homestead with my brothers and sisters, and especially, with my new little brother, Eric.

  Glossary

  NOTE: The English inhabitants of the Lower North Shore drop their Hs. And over the years, many French names have become anglicized: La Tabatière has become Tabacher, Baie des Moutons has become Mutton Bay, and so on.

  BAKEAPPLE: amber-coloured edible fruit similar to the raspberry or blackberry; rich in vitamin C and widely used for jams, jellies, and pies

  BLAINE OAR: a single sculling oar reaching out behind

  HOUSE BRIDGE: front veranda

  KILLICKS: anchors for nets made of stone and wood

  LIVYERS: people who lived year round; from “live ’ere”

  MIDDAH: midwife

  MISSION BOAT: small sailboat with basic sleeping accommodations for the captain and parson

  PACKET BOAT: small boat designed for domestic mail, passenger, and freight transportation on regular, scheduled service

  PITTUK DOG: closest dog to the sled

  PITTUK LOOP: a shortish loop of rope joining the fronts of the two runners to the dogs’ leads

  REDBERRIES: a short evergreen shrub in the heath family that bears deep red edible berries delicious in jams, pies, and wines; also called lowbush cranberries

  SCULP A SEAL: remove the pelt from the carcass with a skinning knife

  STAGEHEAD: that portion of a wharf stretching out over the water from the shed
, itself called a stage

  Author’s Note

  My great grandfather fought in 1805 under Admiral Nelson in the Battle of Trafalgar. When his man o’war, the Bellerophon, came to the New World, he jumped ship and built his new home in the Gaspé. His youngest son, my grandfather, James, was born in 1835, and my father, Eric, also a youngest son, was born in 1893.

  To commemorate these three ancestors, I write this series of largely fictional accounts of a family that helped found a real English community on the shores of the Gaspé Coast, and lived and farmed there for two centuries.

  Paul Almond

  Shigawake, Gaspé Coast

  Summer 2012

  Acknowledgements

  At the outset, let me say this is a work of fiction (as are others in this series). I have drawn from real surnames who lived on the Lower North Shore (known then as the Canadian Labrador) but none of my characters represent real people, apart from historical figures. If I have inadvertently chosen names of men and women actually alive at that time, I beg their offspring forgiveness. No likeness was intended or implied.

  The man after whom I patterned my hero, Rev. John Alford, was in reality my Uncle, Colonel, The Ven. John Macpherson Almond, M.A., D.C.L., C.B.E., C.M.G., V.D. (born 1871, died 1939), the eldest brother of my father, Eric. Although no letters of his survive from that particular time, his story has been recorded in journals. I am grateful to his grandson, Peter Almond, and his wife Emily, for supplying me with some of these documents.

  Of all the remarkable help I received, Sharon Ransom, an historian of the region, stands out. She and her husband Jim grew up on these shores, went off for a time, and on returning, used their accumulated savings to beg, borrow, scrounge or otherwise rescue artefacts from early times, as well as developing the only really comprehensive source of how people lived in bygone days. I could not have written this book without their generous help. Sharon answered my daily emails tirelessly and willingly, and even read my drafts to check their accuracy, and added a great wealth of local lore to the text.

  I must acknowledge the crew of the Relais Nordic which plies the Coast and bore us along the most picturesque routes imaginable, stopping off first at Anticosti Island, where the deer roam freely about the streets of Port Menier. Especially, with Joan and Ted, I want to thank the chef and also the pretty young waitresses (Maryse, Annette, and Kania) who kindly (and strictly) watched my diet and flung merriment around their tiny mess room.

  It makes a difference to how one creates stories when one’s reception by strangers is so very generous, as were the wonderful people of Mutton Bay and Tabacher. Randy Jones, the Mayor of Greater M’catna (Mecatina), made sure that Joan and I were welcomed, arranging things with his brother, Lloyd, king of coming and going by air. He also put us in touch with the dynamic Ivan Smith, who not only runs a tour guide service, but also Smitty’s Boarding House, Smitty’s Car Rentals and even collects the village garbage. Ivan provided us with information and with comfortable living quarters while we waited out the high winds, fog, and rain which marooned us. “Uncle” Russell Robertson (87) kept me on the edge of my seat with tales of his boyhood in the 20s, not so far off in Uncle Jack’s time. In Mutton Bay, kindly “Aunt” Minnie Gallichon (now deceased) told me more of the old times, and even found the marriage certificate signed by Uncle Jack when he married her parents, one of whom, Thomas Buffett, was his church warden. I still find it odd that my uncle married the parents of a nonagenarian! Finally, I was also aided by Phil Vatcher, dynamic and friendly long-time church warden of St. Clements.

  I also benefited from contact with the lovely Rev. Patricia Peacock’s husband, the Flying Clergyman, Archdeacon Bob Bryan, who spent forty-eight years visiting and ministering to the folk along the LNS, and was goldmine. He reassured me that most of these events had also happened to him. Cynthia Patterson, a wonderful friend and dynamic leader, has been helping me use these books to raise funds for churches along the Gaspe Coast and Lower North Shore.

  This story required a lot of delving into archives. Anna Grant, of Bishops University in Lennoxville, searched those cellars for mentions of Uncle Jack. Jim Sweeney, after much urging, sent me a great deal of important information, especially taking trouble to track down Mrs. Bishop’s pretty first name: Anna Bell. Contributions from the Dictionary of Anglican Clergy in Canada born before 1901 in the Archives of the Anglican Diocese of Ottawa were kindly retrieved for me by their archivist, Glenn J Lockwood.

  I drew a good deal of material from authors who lived and wrote in the early part of the century: in particular, Labrador Diary, the fascinating journals of Rev. Henry Gordon (1915-25) published by Print Atlantic, and his wife Clara who also kept a journal, Labrador Teacher, both superbly edited and presented by Archdeacon Frances Buckle (now deceased). The Layton documents, illuminating letters from a missionary in Harringon Harbour 1901-2, were found for me by Sharon Ransom. Anne Carney’s delightful Harrington Harbour, published in a lovely edition by those invaluable local publishers, Price Patterson, and Our Lives (of Labrador’s golden oldies) published by the Flanker Press, were both helpful. Purple Ironweed by Sylvia Raff, a descendant of one of the old fur traders, illuminated the past. I especially enjoyed A Woman’s Way through Unknown Labrador, by Mina Benson Hubbard, the first woman to cross that desolate and unknown wilderness and map its northern waterways. Finally, the wonderful photographer, Louise Abbott, fell in love as we did with the LNS and made many trips there back in the 1980s. Her poetic black and white photographs in The Coast Way are illuminated by a scholarly text and many verbatim interviews. Our map is based on hers, for which she has graciously given me permission, and amplified by Sharon Ransom. I was lucky enough to have her read and comment on a draft as well. In fact, almost every key event in my recounting of my Uncle’s time up there were drawn from real events in these very different books and from my interviews.

  An old director friend, Rene Bonnière, with his co-film-maker Pierre Perrault (now deceased), made a series of three films on the Lower North Shore in the fifties. These were no longer available, so Rene kindly sent me his own cassette. These impressive works recorded vividly the people and their ways of life fifty years ago in beautiful and informative film-making.

  Again my old mentor Professor Paul Piehler has come to my rescue with his rather brilliant elucidation of Pilgrim’s Progress. This important book, read by so many in that era, fits in with his own theories of myth and the hero’s journey, the archetype which has inspired my writing and films over the years. I must also acknowledge the snippet from J.B Phillips excellent modern translation in 1958 of St. Paul, published then by Geoffery Bles in Canada.

  I am lucky in friendships upon whom I have shamelessly imposed by asking for good criticisms. Nicholas Etheridge, after a distinguished career in the Foreign Service, continues to provide useful insights on all of the books, as do the lovely Diana Roman and Rev. Susan Klein. Joan Dow, a genealogist and founder of the British Heritage Village on the Gaspe Coast, has been a faithful reader of all four, as has her daughter Cynthia. Art P. Campbell, another distant cousin and former teacher at Bishop’s College School, (now deceased) made several corrections, according to his knowledge of the lore of the Gaspe region before he passed away; I shall miss our summer visits. And I want to thank Linda Rutenberg for her picture on the cover.

  My latest draft was read (and savaged) by many more readers: especially my old friends from Oxford, film director Peter Duffell and Diana Coleman Webster, both writers and he also a director. Dr. Rex King, who had been in my writing group for years, made helpful edits throughout, and as did playwright Oren Safdie. His father, Moshe, invited Joan and me to his spacious and splendid palapa in Puerto Escondido, where I finished this final draft, while Oren wrote his next play. My newfound friend and brilliant Cambridge graduate and novelist, David Stansfield, read the final version and made umpteen wonderful edits, as well as making the map and designing my website with his Quebecoise wife, Denyse. And most important, a spe
cial thanks to Miss Whirlwind, Kim McArthur, and her amazing team at McArthur & Company. Kim believed in this series from the beginning and she and her team have done a splendid job of editing and marketing The Alford Saga.

  Finally, my cousin Ted Wright, my principal researcher and accomplice, came with Joan and me on our Labrador trip, driving our van and hefting our suitcases, and continuing all summer long to be a useful sounding board, giving me great advice and sweeping the Internet for little known facts. He read and commented on all of the drafts.

  And of course, the incomparable Joan, my wife and partner of over thirty-five years, a faithful supporter in no matter what predicaments and adventures my writing involves.

  Appendix

  Most of my material is drawn from imagination, but it is also based upon observations and interviews during my trip to the Lower North Shore, as well as on numerous books and direct accounts published in the Church Society’s annual reports and the Quebec Diocesan Gazette. I quote hereunder a few significant passages:

  Quebec Diocesan Gazette 1897 No. 1

  Mr. Eugene Bishop talks about the work and meeting Mr. Almond. “Here I met our second missionary, Mr. Almond, who had come across from Gaspé on the SS La Canadienne on 15 September, having been ordained Deacon on Aug 30th. After walking fifteen miles, when we were within about two miles of our destination, the bad walking led me to say something about the “Slough” in “Pilgrim’s Progress” whereupon Mr. Almond, who had a copy with him, at once got it out of his grip and read an extract from Goodness and Christian to keep up our courage, and said he preferred such a tramp to “sweating Hebrew.”

  “In the evening we proceeded to Mingan, whence the Packet will take us to Natashquan where we shall take our own mission boat the Evangeline and visit the places as we go.”

  Quebec Diocesan Gazette 1897 No. 3